


The St Valentine's Day Massacre

by miloowen



Series: The Post-A Million Sherds Universe [3]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:31:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miloowen/pseuds/miloowen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the post-A Million Sherds universe, Deanna Troi and Beverly Crusher want to make sure that the ship's most famous couple -- Will Riker and Jean-Luc Picard -- don't ignore the traditions of St Valentine's Day, including the ship's Valentine's Day Ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set, once again, in the post- A Million Sherds universe. William Riker is still in recovery from PTSD, and his relationship with Jean-Luc Picard is likewise still new. Although this is not part of the Jewish liturgical series which includes "A Horn for All Your Songs" and "A Frame of Living Wood," this story does follow chronologically after both.

The St Valentine’s Day Massacre

 

 

 

1.

 

 

 

           “Will,” Deanna said, elongating my name the way she did when she wanted some sort of “special” treatment from me.  She took my elbow.  “You’re free now, aren’t you?”

            I sighed.  Technically I was, free.  But after almost three months of sick leave, every spare moment I had was trying to get things done that either should have been done and hadn’t been, or were part of my re-education – new personnel, new jobs, new missions, new projects.  “Yes,” I said.  “For you, always,” and I grinned at her.

            “How would you like to watch me eat a chocolate sundae?” she asked, and she was smiling her “evil” smile, the one that meant she’d an idea and the person to implement her ideas was, unfortunately, almost always me.

            “One,” I said, seriously, “chocolate sundae, and only because I love you.”

            “I’ve never doubted that for a moment,” she replied, and I just rolled my eyes.

            Ten-Forward was busy in a low-key way.  It was shift change, from alpha to beta, and small groups of three or four crew members were wandering in.  Mac was on duty today, as well as Guinan, and she nodded at me as we walked past, over to my traditional table, the one Guinan always kept open for me.

            Mac appeared within a minute.  “A chocolate sundae for the lady,” I said.  “Do you want a beverage, Deanna?”

            “No, thank you, Will,” she answered.

            “I’ll just have a cup of coffee,” I said.  “Make sure it’s decaf.”

            “Yes, sir,” Mac said.  “I know, sir.  Three creams.”

            It was now three months into recovery, and I’d successfully weaned myself off of caffeine, even though I still loved the taste and the smell of coffee, because, when you have a severe anxiety disorder, caffeine is not the drug for you, even if it’s in just a cup of coffee.  I’d learned that the hard way, when my doctor – a leading psychiatrist from Betazed – had explained the effect of caffeine on my already stressed-out neurochemistry, and how it had contributed to the hallucinations I’d had during the worst of my illness.

            “You’re having a good day,” Deanna remarked as we waited for our order.  “And you’ve added a few more kilos, I see.  You’re looking much better, Will.”

            “Thanks,” I said.  I’d lost almost thirty kilos in the worst of my illness, as my body had attempted to shut down and I’d lost the ability to feel hunger and then, to digest any food at all.  “I am having a good day,” I said.  Acknowledging the good in my life was part of my treatment plan.  “Is this some sort of a check up?” I asked.  Deanna, along with my specialists Joao da Costa and Stoch who’d been trained by Dr McBride, was my therapist now.

            “No, of course not, Will,” she answered.  “Thank you,” she said to Mac.  “I would never work with you here, Will.  You know that.”

            I did know that.  I sipped my coffee.  “So you’re just being nice to me,” I said, “which means, my dear friend, there’s something you want, and I’m likely to say no.”

            Deanna choked on her ice cream and I shook my head.

            “Honestly,” I said.  “How many years have we known each other? _Imzadi_?”

            She coloured a bit, which always, in my humble opinion, made her look more lovely.  “Deanna,” I said.

            She wiped her mouth and then she smiled.  “I don’t _want_ anything, Will, I promise you,” she said.

            “But?” I asked.

            “Well, it’s Valentine’s Day next week,” she said.  “And there’s the Valentine’s Day Ball.”

            “Yes?” I said.  “I thought you were going with Worf?”

            “I _am_ going with Worf, if you’d let me finish, William,” she said.

            “Oh, so I’m William now, am I?  You must want something truly major.” She scowled at me, and I said, “All right.  I’ll shut up.”

            “Beverly and I – “ she began.

            I rolled my eyes.  “I think I’m going to leave now,” I said, laughing.  “If this is something you’ve concocted with Beverly, I think I’ll just hide, and maybe it will go away.”

            “Hiding is no longer part of your treatment plan, William,” she said seriously, and I nearly spit my coffee out.  “Can you cooperate with me, please?”

            She was perilously close to whining, and I hate whining.  “Go ahead,” I agreed.  “I am resigned to this.”

            “Beverly and I would like to know what your plans are,” she said.

            “My plans for what?” I asked.

            “Will,” she said impatiently.  “For Valentine’s Day and the Valentine’s Day Ball.”

            “Oh,” I said, and I could feel my face flushing.  It was a major burden for me, to have such pale skin.  Another thing I could blame my father for, I thought.

            “This is a new situation for both of you,” she continued.  “You usually bring some cute lieutenant, and the captain comes for half an hour to boost morale –“ she actually made a face “ – and then runs away as quickly as he can.”  She paused, waiting for me to say something, I guess, but I was waiting for the deck to open up and swallow me.  “So.  Beverly and I were a little concerned that the pair of you were just going to pretend there was no such thing as Valentine’s Day, but, Will, as your friend –“ she took my hand “— _and_ your therapist, I don’t think ignoring this holiday is going to be helpful for either one of you.”

            “Uh huh,” I said.  What else was I going to say?

            “You may want to order another cup of coffee,” Deanna said wryly.

            “You mean you’re going to actually make me think about this?” I asked in disbelief.  “Here, in Ten Forward?”

           “Have you gotten Jean-Luc a gift for next week?” she asked.  “And don’t manufacture a crisis which needs attending, please.”

            “A gift?” I echoed.

            “Will.  It’s traditional for two people romantically involved to give each other gifts on St Valentine’s Day.  And you already know this, because I distinctly remember receiving bouquets of flowers _and_ chocolates from you.”  She smiled.

            “I am _not_ giving Jean-Luc Picard flowers or chocolates for Valentine’s Day,” I said in a low voice.  “Not in my lifetime.  Not in this universe.”

            She rolled her eyes.  “We assumed that,” she said, “although it _would_ be amusing to see his reaction.”

            “And then he’d send me to the brig for insubordination,” I said.  “No thank you.  That’s not a reaction I’d care to see.”

            “He would not,” Deanna argued.

            “Oh, yes, he would,” I said.  “I see a side of him you don’t.”

            “Oooh, do tell,” she said, and I started to rise. “Oh, Will, I’m joking.  Sit down and order another coffee.  Or better yet, have a bite of ice cream.”

            “I hate ice cream,” I said, “especially chocolate ice cream,” but I sat back down.

            “You need to get him something,” she said, after a minute, licking her spoon.  “What would he like?”

            “A week exploring dusty ruins somewhere,” I said, thoughtfully, “but he won’t take leave so soon after everything that happened.”

            “You could get Reg to help you design a special holodeck program for him,” she suggested.

            “Then I’d be obligated to join him,” I said.  “And he’d make me ride a horse.”

            “You can program a horse that you won’t fall off of,” she said.

            “You can stop being so mean to me,” I answered.

            “Will,” she said.  “You need to think about this seriously.  Beverly is going to talk to Jean-Luc about this.  And both of you are going to attend the ball.  Together.  In your evening dress.  As a couple.  Now _that_ would boost morale.”  She grinned.

            “You want me to dance with Jean-Luc in front of the ship?” I was horrified.

            “You are both good dancers,” she replied.  “Why not?”

            I contemplated her with growing anxiety.  “I have an anxiety disorder,” I said, “and currently you are not helping me at all.  You said Beverly is going to talk to Jean-Luc about giving me a Valentine’s gift and going to the ball?”

            “Mmm-hhmmm.”

            “Oh my God,” I said.  “I think I’ll spend tonight in _my_ quarters.”

            “William,” she said, “hiding is definitely _not_ part of your treatment plan.  You can always bounce ideas off of me.”  She stood up.  “Thank you, for the sundae.”

            I watched her walk away.  I sat, looking at my half-filled cup of coffee.  I felt someone walk up behind me and Guinan said, “Are you two bickering again?”

            “No,” I said.  “She wanted to know what I was getting Jean-Luc for Valentine’s Day.  And Beverly is apparently asking Jean-Luc what he is getting me.”

            “I have some Aldebaran whiskey under the bar,” Guinan said, after a moment, “if you’d like a drop in your coffee.”

            “That,” I answered, “I think, is the only way I’m going to get through this next week.”

            

            


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beverly approaches Jean-Luc regarding his plans for Valentine's Day and the Valentine's Day Ball.

2.

 

 

 

            Picard had been both surprised, and then a little amused, when, three weeks into Will’s moving into his quarters, Will offered to schedule his physical therapy before alpha shift two mornings a week, so that Picard could continue to have his familiar breakfast with Beverly.  It had surprised him, because he’d thought, after six, almost seven years of Will being his First, that he knew the man fairly well; he knew, for example, that he was funny, and that he used humour as part of his personnel strategy; that he was brave; that he was stubborn, almost to the point of being insubordinate; and that he was kind.  He’d just never before been on the receiving end of one of Will’s numerous kindnesses.  Those were, he’d thought, reserved for small children, and frightened ensigns, and young crewmembers who were fighting family traditions to forge their own paths, as with Will’s therapist Mr Stoch.  And yet, as he watched Will work around him with new eyes, not only with eyes which were seeing Will Riker through the love and desire he felt for the man, but with eyes which were understanding who that man was, and what he’d been through, and how he’d not just survived but was learning the lesson that Guinan had said was crucial for him, to thrive; he could see Will scattering little kindnesses all around him, every day as he worked, speaking to this ensign, resting his hand on that lieutenant’s shoulder briefly, telling a joke to that science officer, making a bet with that crewman, as if he were dropping the shiny white pebbles from that old German fairy tale so his crew could follow them home.  To be on the receiving end of one of Will’s small kindnesses was a revelation, in the same way that it was a revelation to wake up every morning at the same time he’d always had, ninety minutes before alpha shift, but now it was to find the large heat-generating furnace that was Will Riker snuggled up next to him, his head on Picard’s pillow, one arm laid protectively across Picard’s chest.  Those few cherished moments of first awakening, because he always awoke first, set a completely different tone to his day, one that revealed itself in so many ways to his crew.  He smiled, not the small smile he was famous for, but the one where his eyes crinkled up and the person on the receiving end of that smile thought, The captain knows who I am, and that I am alive.  He sometimes accompanied Will to his table in Ten Forward for a quick bite at lunchtime.  Those who knew Picard thought perhaps he was just making sure Will was eating – but the truth was, he enjoyed sitting at Will’s table by the observation windows, watching the stars streak by, listening not just to Will’s voice as he discussed either silly or serious things, but to all the other voices around him, the voices of his ship, his crew.  In those few moments before Will opened his startling blue eyes and grinned at him, before they exchanged morning kisses and made love, he would snake his arm under and around Will, and pull him in closer, and kiss the top of his head or the back of his neck, and then just lay there, with Will in his arms, feeling a sort of placid happiness – a feeling he could never remember having ever felt before – because Will was here, with him, whole and on his way to health; and there were no more night terrors, no more nightmares, no more flashbacks, no more hallucinations; no more terrified little boy hiding in his great-aunt’s coat closet, cold and wet and bleeding.  No more Kyle Riker to haunt anyone’s dreams – not Will’s, and not his own. 

            On this particular morning, Picard had wakened the way he always did, and had pulled Will to him as he did every morning; when Will woke, smiling, there was time for a kiss and a cuddle, but that was all.  Will had PT with Jai Patel, still working on maintaining his breathing and his cardio – twice his heart had failed during his illness – and still strengthening the tendons that he’d severed when he’d attempted suicide.  And Picard had his breakfast with Beverly, and it was his turn to make sure that tea was brewing, and brewing perfectly, and the croissants were warm and buttery, and that the marmalade Beverly preferred was presented in the correct way on the tray.  He didn’t know why these things mattered when he breakfasted with his oldest and dearest friend, but it was part of their tradition together.  Even though Beverly had not grown up in old Scotland on Earth, her grandmother had schooled her in Edinburgh traditions and manners; there was that centuries-old relationship between the Scots and the French which dated back to the Stuart kings.  Civility and civilisation, particularly on a military ship out in the middle of nowhere, is a prized possession, and Picard and Beverly guarded it fiercely.

            He showered first, and dressed himself, immaculate as always, and brought Will his first cup of coffee while he was still puttering around the bedroom, something he always did.  (Will knew better than to mess with his tea.)  Will showered when he was done, and he set about preparing for his day, and then preparing for the ritual of his breakfast.  Will came out into the dayroom, his hair still damp and a little curly, his beard newly-trimmed, just as Picard was placing a single blue-faced violet in the tiny crystal vase on the table.  Will grinned, and said,

            “Will you explain the symbolism of the flowers to me at some point?” before Picard took him in his arms and brought his face down for one last kiss before the day started.  They would not be close again until after their shifts – both shifts, the duty shift and the on-call shift – were over.

            “Of course,” Picard said, when they’d finished.  “Run along now, or you’ll be late for your appointment with Lt Patel.”

            Will rolled his eyes.  “Sir,” he said.  Then he added, “I’m never late,” and he flashed his full-wattage grin.

            “Only,” Picard said, and he was smiling too, “because you have the longest legs in the Fleet, and it takes you one step for anyone else’s four.”

            “Jealousy,” Will answered, ducking his head as he went through the doors of Picard’s quarters, “does not become you, sir,”

            And Picard found himself still smiling as he told Beverly “Come,” and she entered, clearly in a vibrant mood herself, although, he told himself as he watched her pour out, there was a bit of the cat that caught the canary about her smile.

            “Jean-Luc,” she said, as she folded her napkin, “Deanna and I were wondering –“

            He immediately went on high alert.  He’d known there was something about her smile; any time she and Deanna Troi got together on something it was bound to demand a response from him which would be uncomfortable at best.

            “Yes?” he said, and he kept his voice as neutral as possible.

            “Really, Jean-Luc,” Beverly returned, with a hint of irritation, “it’s not as if I’m going to ask you to sing Klingon opera or something.”

            “You asked Will to sing in ‘The Mikado,’” Picard replied, his hazel eyes smiling just a bit, “when you are quite aware just how much he despises Gilbert and Sullivan.”

            “Yes,” she agreed, “but with Will and Data and Worf, I have the perfect trio for ‘The Mikado,’ and it would have been a wonderful birthday present for you.”

            Picard tried not to laugh.  “It would indeed be a wonderful birthday present,” he said, “seeing Mr Riker dressed up as Ko-Ko or Pooh-Bah.  But I’m not sure it would be worth my sleeping alone for the next several months.”

            “Oh, he wouldn’t be like that,” Beverly said airily.  

            “He has, on occasion, called Gilbert and Sullivan an evil act of British imperialism,” Picard answered mildly, and Beverly laughed.  “He would, indeed, be like that.”

            “Then you will be pleased to know, Jean-Luc,” Beverly said, “that I have absolutely no intention of asking Will Riker to sing Gilbert and Sullivan.  Your fears of my being unreasonable are absolutely unjustified.”

            Picard was silent, and then he said, “I don’t think I’m going to like this at all.  You had better tell me.”

            “Deanna and I,” Beverly remarked, “were a little concerned about your plans for next week.  And I promised Deanna that I would check in with you to see what they were.”

            “My plans for next week?” Picard repeated, mystified.  “Whatever do you mean?”

            “Jean-Luc,” Beverly said, in that annoyingly maternal voice she sometimes used, which almost always made him feel as if he were five years old again and had been very naughty, “I mean Valentine’s Day and the Valentine’s Day Ball.”

            Picard felt the neutral expression take over his face and he stared at her in icy silence.  

            Beverly rolled her eyes.  “You may be able to frighten an ensign with that look, Jean-Luc,” she said, “but you don’t frighten me.  What are your plans?  Have you bought a gift for Will yet?  Because this year, Jean-Luc, Will isn’t going to bring his usual cute lieutenant to the ball, and you aren’t going to be able to show your face for thirty minutes and then hide in your quarters, as you’ve done for as long as I’ve been on this ship.  This year, Jean-Luc, you and Will are the highest-ranking couple – which means it’s up to you two to dance the first dance of the ball.”

            “And this is your business because?” he asked.

            “Because I know you, Jean-Luc,” Beverly replied, exasperated.  “You and Will probably thought – if you’ve thought about it at all – that you’ll just pretend Valentine’s Day doesn’t exist – no, don’t interrupt me, Jean-Luc – but you will be making a mistake if you do that.  You are forgetting, Jean-Luc Picard, just how much Will’s illness affected the whole ship, and how frightened and worried we all were.  It wasn’t just you.  Every person on this ship, whether crew or civilian, was anxious and upset.  We came so close so many times to losing him.  This Valentine’s Day – your first as a couple – is important.  It’s important to the two of you, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not, and it’s also important to the ship.  To see the pair of you, together – “

            “You are suggesting,” Picard said dryly, “that my dancing a waltz with William Riker in my ill-fitting dress whites will aid in the morale of this ship?”

            Beverly returned his stare without flinching.  “That,” she retorted, “is exactly what I am suggesting.  You are remarkably handsome in your dress whites, Jean-Luc.  And,” she added, “you will find an appropriately romantic gift for him, too.”

            “I can assume,” Picard said, after a moment, “that Deanna is having a similar conversation with Will?”

            “That was the plan.”

            “And you’ll have a hypo spray prepared for his inevitable panic attack, then?” Picard asked, toying with his spoon.

            “William Riker is a very romantic individual,” Beverly said.  “He has probably already gotten your gift.  You should have seen what he gave Lieutenant Cruz last year.”

            “If William Riker gives me flowers and chocolates for Valentine’s Day,” Picard said, once again using his neutral tone of voice, “I shall send him to the brig.”

            Beverly burst out laughing.  “You wouldn’t dare,” she said.

            “Watch me,” Picard responded.

            “Jean-Luc,” Beverly coaxed, “just think about it.  You know we’re right.  Although,” she added, grinning wickedly, “perhaps I ought to offer the two of you dance lessons.  After all, only one of you can lead.”

            “That, Dr Crusher,” Picard said, “is quite enough,” but she’d already danced herself out the door.

            He could hear her laughing down the corridor.  It was going to be a very long day indeed.

            


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will asks Jean-Luc to the ship's St Valentine's Day Ball.

3.

 

 

 

            I’d managed successfully to lose myself in work for the rest of my shift, and had almost entirely forgotten about my conversation with Deanna, when I realised that it was closing in on dinner time; unofficially, Jean-Luc and I ate this meal in particular together.  I’d been on the bridge with him before I’d had my little chat with Deanna, but I hadn’t seen him since, and I wondered – since he hadn’t said anything to me on the bridge out of normal working conversation – if Beverly had said anything to him at all.  Maybe, I thought, she hadn’t, and I could pretend that Deanna hadn’t waylaid me, and all of this could just sort of drift away.

            I entered his quarters and found him sitting at his desk, staring at his padd, looking unusually pensive.

            “Hello, Will,” he said, glancing at me.  “I’m surprised to see you here.”

            “Did you kick me out and forget to tell me?” I asked.

            “No,” he replied, and I could tell he was trying not to laugh, “but I rather thought you’d be hiding in your quarters this evening.”

            “Oh,” I said, sitting down on his sofa.  “Beverly talked to you.”

            “I’m not sure,” he said, closing down his padd, “whether she was talking to me, or talking _at_ me.”

            “Deanna,” I said, “was not talking either to me or at me.  She was in full command mode.”

            “You do outrank her, you know,” Jean-Luc remarked, standing up.  He walked over to his cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine.  “Would you like one, Will?”

            “No, thanks,” I answered.  “I’d better not.”

            I was still on medication, and Jean-Luc’s wine was not synthehol.

            “Nothing, then?” 

            “I’m okay,” I said.

            He came over to the sofa and sat beside me.  He sipped his wine thoughtfully and I wondered if he were waiting for me to bring the subject up.

            “I have to admit, Will,” he said, finally, “that what you gave Lieutenant Cruz last year was nothing short of spectacular.”

            I decided that I hated both Deanna Troi and Beverly Crusher.  “Uh,” I said.  

            “Is there some kind of exponential relationship between the extravagance of the gift and the length of the relationship?”  He peered at me over the wine glass.

            This must be one of the downsides to dating a captain, rather than a lieutenant.  A lieutenant would never have had the guts to ask me that.  “Maybe I will have a drink,” I said.

            “Help yourself,” he said.

            I stood up and poured myself half a glass of wine.  “Did we make a rule about discussing past relationships?” I asked.  “Because maybe we should.”

            “Beverly seemed to think that your gift to Lieutenant Cruz was an appropriate model for your –“ he hesitated for a moment “- _gift_ to me.”

            This was the second time in less than five hours that I’d wanted a hole to open up and swallow me.  “I promise you, Jean-Luc,” I said desperately, “that I would _never_ do that to you.”

            “I’m pleased to hear that, Number One,” he said.  “I’d rather hate to have to send you to the brig on what is supposed to be a romantic evening.”  He looked up at me and I could see – finally – that he was amused.  “Come back here, Will,” he said.  “I shan’t bite.”

            “Do you promise?” I asked, and he laughed.

            “I shan’t where it shows, anyway,” he amended, and I rolled my eyes at him and sat down next to him.  I set my wine glass on the table, and we kissed.

            “Feeling better?” he asked, holding me.

            “You were just winding me up,” I said, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

            “A little,” he agreed.  “You can tolerate some gentle teasing now, can’t you, _mon_ _cher_?”

            “It didn’t feel so gentle,” I complained, but I wasn’t being terribly serious, and he knew it.

            I let him hold me. 

            “So,” he said.

            “Can’t we just wander into the Neutral Zone or something?  Bribe Geordi into a warp core breach?  Have Barclay destabilise the starboard nacelles?”

            “Have Data invite Lore to return,” Jean-Luc added.  “Go looking for the Borg.”

            “You could invite Q,” I suggested.  “I’m sure he’d be happy to dance with you, and I’ll just lead the band.”

            He was silent, and I thought perhaps I’d gone too far.  “If I must dance with someone, William Riker,” he said, “it will definitely _not_ be Q.”

            “I’m sure he tangos very well, Jean-Luc,” I murmured.

            “If you make the first dance a tango, Mr Riker –“ he began.

           I laughed.  “The play list has been set for weeks, Jean-Luc,” I answered.  “The first dance is a waltz.  You know that.  It’s only later that we jazz it up.”

            “And you’re playing or leading?” he asked.

            “A little bit of both,” I said, “but you won’t be at the table by yourself, sir.  If you come.  If we are, in fact, doing this.”

            He kissed the back of my neck and said, “I rather like the idea of bribing Mr La Forge.”

            “I love you, Jean-Luc,” I said, and then I bit the bullet.  “I would be honoured, Jean-Luc, if you would accompany me to the Valentine’s Day Ball.”

            “ _Je t’aime aussi_ ,” he answered, “ _et je suis heureux d’accepter_.”

            I sighed.  “You’d better lead,” I said, after a moment.

            “You’re taller,” he responded.  “It would make more sense for you to lead.”

            “You’re the captain,” I replied.

            “But not in this relationship,” he argued, “or at least I hope not.”

            “You know not,” I said, reaching for him.  “Your days as my ‘caregiving partner’ are over.” 

            “Welcome news indeed,” he said.  “In fact,” he said in my ear, “you did very well today, considering how anxious all of this must have made you feel.”

            “I did do well today, didn’t I?” I said, surprised.  “And I was – anxious.  A lot anxious.  Especially when Deanna was giving me my orders.”  I grinned and sat up.  “I did consider it.”

            “You considered what?” He stood up.  “Shall we eat now?  I’m sure you’re hungry.”

            “I _am_ hungry,” and that was another pleasing thought, to be able to recognise hunger and then to name it.  “Hiding, Jean-Luc.  In my quarters.”

            “I know you did,” he replied.  “It’s why I was surprised to see you, remember?  So,” he said, ordering his food from the replicator and bringing it over to the table.  “What changed your mind?”

            I said, laughing, “Deanna said hiding was no longer part of my treatment plan.  And I _always_ follow my treatment plan.”

            “I’ll be sure to let Dr McBride know that,” Jean-Luc said, laughing in return, and we were successfully able to eat our meal without returning once to the subject of Valentine’s Day or the Valentine’s Day Ball.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picard awakens to his Valentine's Day gifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tip my metaphorical and literary hat off to mabb5 for one of the suggestions for Picard's romantic backstory.

4.

 

 

 

            Picard woke, and stretched, bumping into Will, as he did every morning, and so he turned onto his side, and deftly pulled Will to him, kissing him gently on the forehead as he did so.  Will was still asleep, and soundly, it seemed; it was indeed wonderful, Picard acknowledged briefly, as he luxuriated in the warmth that was Will, to watch Will sleep without disturbance, and without fear.  Oh, Will still had some bad nights, but Picard had been trained – through fire, it seemed – in dealing with them, and he was now always able to soothe his partner back into sleep.  Will stirred, and moved in a bit closer; Picard kissed him again, recognizing that he had plenty of time before he would really have to get up, and he lay there, dozing, not thinking at all – and how many mornings before he’d taken Will into his bed had he spent without having a million issues running through his head? – and this was all still such a new experience, for him.  His other relationships – the recent ones, anyway – had not progressed as far as this one with Will had – they’d been of short duration, either from necessity, or from choice.  He no longer felt any bitterness about the failed relationship with Nella Daran, and of course, his dalliance – and that was all it had been – with Vash was entirely different, really; an aberration in his usual type of relationship.  She’d been exciting and had made him feel young again, but he’d been grateful when Q had lured her away, once he’d allowed himself to acknowledge it.  No, he would have to look deeply into his past, for any relationship that approximated the one he was building with Will; he never thought about her, anymore, not really, or at least not on a daily or even weekly basis, but there’d been Edmonde, with whom he’d been ready to marry and settle down, during the years after he lost the _Stargazer_ , when he was in the diplomatic corps; there’d been Jack – and even further back, unbeknownst, certainly, to anyone except himself, now that it had been so long ago, there’d been Michel.  Jack – that had been almost a surreal time; he’d never meant to fall in love with Jack and he’d certainly never meant to maintain the relationship he’d had with Jack while Jack was married and had a young child.  His feelings about Jack were still conflicted with guilt and loss; sometimes they’d surfaced, early on in Will’s illness, when he wasn’t completely sure that McBride would be able to save Will, let alone heal him.  He adored Beverly – he always had and he always would – but his feelings for her were complex and still tinged with guilt.  He knew that she would have been willing, on a number of occasions, to begin a relationship with him – they were of the same rank, almost, as she was the second-highest ranking officer on the ship, outranking even Will, in years – but he was an honest man, and he would have had to tell her about Jack, and he didn’t know that he could.  It would break her heart – and he cared for her too much to ever want that for her.

            Michel…it had been so long ago it was hard to recall Michel’s face to mind, even as he remembered how he’d often framed it so lovingly with kisses.  He’d met Michel after he’d failed his first exam to the Academy.  That had been a dreadful time; in his imagination, fraught with anxiety and despair, he could only see the smugness of his father’s face and Robert’s smirks as he struggled with the first real failure of his life.  Now, of course, he knew that his father had not been smug at all, but deeply concerned, worried that his son was perhaps not as strong as he’d pretended to be; and that while yes, certainly there was a bit of mean-spiritedness about Robert’s reaction it certainly had not, Picard thought now, been undeserved.  He had been arrogant and insufferable towards his older brother, who was, in fact, not a stupid man but a man with the same keen intelligence that he had, only Robert’s was often overlooked – and Robert, Picard acknowledged, had been so much better at maths.  In the end, it had been Robert who had helped him with his calculus, a debt that Picard had never repaid until his last trip home, after the Borg attack.  But Michel – Michel had represented a different way of life, an understanding that there were more than just two paths for the young seventeen-year-old Picard, the two paths that he could only see then, the Academy or the winery.  Michel had shown him that his paths were infinite.  It was the combination of Michel’s generosity of spirit and Robert’s success as a teacher that contributed to his passing the exam for the Academy the second time.  Knowing that there were many more opportunities for him in the world, knowing that there was one person who loved him for who he was, had relaxed him enough so that he sailed through the Academy exam without any anxiety at all.  He wondered, briefly, what had happened to Michel, but, of course, he had no way of knowing, as he’d kept his relationship with him a secret from his family, in the same way that his relationship with Jack had been a secret.

            Will stirred, and he was suddenly fiercely glad, that having at last made it to sixty-seven, he was adult enough not to hide his relationships with anyone anymore.  He’d been surprised, that he hadn’t particularly cared that his entire sickbay had been party to his growing love for Will; even more surprised, that he’d been able to spend the night with Will, and make love to Will, in their make-shift bedroom in the middle of sickbay.  Jean-Luc Picard, it seemed, had finally, after all these years, grown up.  It was liberating.  He would enjoy, he thought, accompanying Will to the Valentine’s Day Ball.

            “You’re a little thoughtful for this early in the morning, aren’t you, Jean-Luc?” Will asked, his blue eyes a little anxious but a smile still playing about his lips.

            “Did my thinking wake you, _mon cher_?” Picard asked, smiling.  “It was too loud, perhaps?”

            “You weren’t worrying about tonight, were you?”  Will propped himself up on his elbow.

            “No, I was not,” Picard said, pulling Will back into him and kissing him lightly.  Their kiss deepened, and when Picard broke off, he was slightly out of breath.  “I am looking forward to tonight,” he said, kissing Will’s ear.

            Will glanced up at him and saw that this was true; his smile broadened into his much-beloved grin and Picard found himself nearly overcome with desire.  Imagine, at his age, feeling this way again….

            “Make love to me,” Will said, “we have plenty of time,” but Picard was already covering Will with kisses and tugging at his pyjamas.

 

 

            Will was sleeping lightly when Picard made an effort to untangle himself and get up.  He felt Will wrap his arm around him, and pull him back into the bed.

            “Really, Mr Riker,” Picard said, smiling, “we both are due on the bridge.”

            “No, we’re not,” Will mumbled, burying his head into Picard’s side.

            “Of course we are,” Picard replied.  “I’ll bring you your coffee, if you like.”

            “Jean-Luc,” Will said patiently, as if he were chiding a recalcitrant ensign, “no, we aren’t.  I gave us both the morning off.”

            Picard sat up.  “Now why on earth would you do that?” he asked.  “And how are you able to arrange my schedule, Number One?”

            Will sighed, and sat up himself.  “Because,” he said, “I am the First Officer of this ship, and thus I am responsible for the duty rosters of everyone, including you.”

            Picard laughed.  “And your justification for _both_ of us having the morning off, _mon cher_?”

            “Tonight, while it is time off for everyone else on this ship,” Will said, and his tone of voice indicated to Picard that he’d given this some thought, “we will both be on a particular kind of duty.  Sir,” Will said, and he grinned.  “Every time my band performs at any of these functions, Jean-Luc,” he explained, “I am leading by example for this ship, showing that I care enough about morale to be personally involved.  By finding talented crew members, by searching for ways to give our hardworking crew either a taste of home or a welcome break, by making sure that we’re representing everyone’s culture, not just the Federation’s….”  He shrugged, and then he cupped his hand – almost as large as Picard’s face – under Picard’s chin and kissed him.  “To give up your privacy, Jean-Luc, to accompany me to the dance tonight.  You’re working, sir.  You’re demonstrating the kind of personal bravery which makes you so important to this ship.”

            Picard was silent, and then he said, “ _Tu es mon garçon doux_.”

            “At any rate,” Will said, after a moment, “you aren’t on duty until oh-eleven hundred, sir.  So,” he added, “we don’t have to get up now, if we don’t want to.”

            “And you are on duty when?” Picard asked, after returning Will’s kiss.

            “Oh-ten hundred,” Will said, somewhat sheepishly.  “I have a great deal to do.”

            Picard laughed.  “Come here, you,” he said, and then he whispered, in between kissing Will’s jaw and his neck, “happy Valentine’s Day, _mon cher_.”

 

 

 

            When Picard woke the second time, Will was gone.  He remembered, vaguely, Will getting up and kissing him goodbye, but the luxury of sleeping in – something that simply never would have happened, pre-Will – had lured him back.  Now he was wide awake, and feeling perhaps a little foolish.  He showered and dressed quickly, wanting to have the time to read the various reports of the day before his appearance on the bridge, and walked into his dayroom intent on having a quick breakfast at his desk before leaving for his ready room.

            His dayroom was filled with the scent of spring flowers.  His first thought was that he would simply throttle Will and then send him to the brig.  But Will hadn’t really done anything unusual.  Picard always had fresh flowers in his dayroom, usually chrysanthemums, a habit he’d started on the _Stargazer_ , and one that he hadn’t given up when he’d gotten the _Enterprise_.  Will had simply switched out the chrysanthemums for masses of narcissi and hyacinths, tulips and iris, all with their evocative scents of spring.  And home.

            Picard sighed, and then he laughed.  William Riker was a sly devil, and he would no doubt affect complete innocence when he saw him on the bridge.  At least, Picard thought, he hadn’t wakened in a sea of rose petals.

            Picard ordered his tea and a croissant, and carried his tray over to his table, where there was an old-fashioned letter awaiting him.  He set his tray down, and then himself, and took a sip of tea, strong and hot, before giving in to his curiosity.  A letter knife was present – where the hell, he wondered, had Will found one of those? – and he opened the sealed envelope and read the contents, his face colouring just a little, along his cheekbones.

            _Jean-Luc_ , Will had written – the school in that Alaskan village had given Will beautiful penmanship, a strangely old-fashioned skill – _I know I told you that you had to be on the bridge at 1100, but I lied, because I didn’t want you to argue with me in bed.  I’ve given you the entire day off, and your dress whites are already pressed and hanging in the closet, and you will find that there is a boutonnière in that sorry excuse for a cold storage unit you have.  You shoes are polished too, and I hope I did that to your exacting_ _satisfaction_.  Picard could just see Will smirking here, and he took a bite of his croissant.  _I know that you are sitting here already in your uniform, and I am sorry to have to tell you this, but you will need to change into one of those charming Dixon Hill suits that you have, because you will find your Valentine’s Day present on Holodeck Three.  I would_ _love to be there with you_ – Picard knew that this too was a lie; Will had taken a dislike to the Dixon Hill programs – _but some of us have work to do_.  Here Will had underlined _some_.  Picard cheerily thought that as a captain he had the right to discipline anyone as he saw fit, and he thought he could spend the rest of the day thinking up suitable punishments for one extremely cheeky first officer.  _I am dressing in my own quarters,_ Will wrote, _and I have a final dress rehearsal at 1730; I will be at your quarters at 1930 to pick you up._   He’d closed simply with _Love you, Will_ , and then the cheeky bastard had written, _P.S.  I’m not a bit sorry about the flowers_.

            Picard placed the letter back in its envelope, and finished his breakfast.  He took the letter with him when he returned to his bedroom, and left it on the night table.  Then he opened his closet door, and sure enough, his dress whites were hanging there, and his shoes were sitting on the rack, polished to perfection.  He wondered briefly when Will had had the time to organise all of this, and then he shrugged.  Will had the enormous responsibility of running the daily operations of a ship with a capacity of over a thousand; he clearly knew how to manage time.  He returned to the head and undressed, and then found the suit Will had clearly wanted him to wear – a fine grey with a blue silk shirt and a wine-coloured tie – and put it on.  He slipped the two-toned brogues on his feet and placed the grey Fedora on his head, and found himself quite happily walking to the turbo lift that would take him to the holodeck.

            Data was there at the holodeck, dressed in a pinstriped suit, and Picard said, “So he roped you into this as well?”

            “I do not think there was any rope involved, sir,” Data replied, and Picard just shook his head.  “Riker, program one twenty-three,” Data said, and the doors opened, and Data said, “I am not sure what St Valentine’s Day has to do with violence, sir, but I think we are supposed to be G-men –“

            Picard began to laugh, even as mayhem and Tommy guns were exploding all around him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will receives the first of his gifts from Jean-Luc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Gerard Manley Hopkins poem Will references is "Pied Beauty," which Will recites in "A Million Sherds."
> 
> The beach where Jean-Luc spent his holidays as a child is in the Catalan town of Sitges.

5.

 

 

 

            I was on my way to my quarters back from a discussion with Geordi in Engineering when Deanna stopped the turbo lift and got on.  She was still in uniform and I assumed, correctly, as it turned out, that she was also returning to her quarters to change.

            “Hello, Will,” she said.

            “Deanna,” I answered cautiously.  I wasn’t sure who had spilled the beans about Lieutenant Cruz, Deanna or Beverly, and until I knew, I wasn’t about to trust either one of them.

            “Have you seen the captain?” she asked.  “Deck Eight.”

            “No,” I said.  “He has the day off, and I’ve been in Engineering.”

            “I wonder who gave him the day off?” she asked.

            “Perhaps,” I said, “he gave himself the day off.”

            “I rather doubt that,” Deanna remarked.  She was quiet and then she said, as if she were surprised, “You are wearing your poker face.”

            “Big surprise there,” I retorted.  “Perhaps if certain people weren’t determined to meddle in what is obviously none of their business –“

            She put her hand on my arm.  “Oh, Will,” she said, “you’re not still upset, are you?”

            “Full stop,” I said.  “One of you – I don’t know which one – told him what I gave Sara Cruz for Valentine’s Day last year.  And then insinuated that I might do likewise for him.”

            Deanna started to laugh, and then she saw the look on my face.  “Will,” she said in her “soothing” voice, “the whole ship knows what you gave Sara Cruz for Valentine’s Day last year.  I certainly didn’t say anything, and I doubt Beverly did, either.  I’m sure he was able to find out on his own.  He was probably the only one who _didn’t_ know.”

            “Resume,” I said.  “Whatever.”

            “I heard,” she said, “that a certain someone was actually very pleased with his Valentine’s Day gift, and that he had a wonderful time.”

            “Really,” I said.

            “Yes, really,” she answered, and this time she did laugh.  “And you did too give him flowers, you sly dog.”

            I rolled my eyes.  “He always has flowers in his dayroom,” I said.

            The doors to the turbo lift opened, and I strode out, with Deanna trotting behind me to catch up.

            “Will,” she coaxed, “you haven’t told me what he gave you.”

            I turned around and glared at her.  “I don’t know,” I said, “and if I did know, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.  It would be like announcing it over the communications channel.  In fact, that wouldn’t probably be as effective.”

            “Oh, you’re no fun,” she said.  

            “Have you received your gift from Worf?” I asked.

            “I thought I had,” she answered, “why?”

            “I just wondered if the _bat’leth_ was the right size,” I replied, and I ducked into my quarters.

            “Will Riker,” I heard her say outside my door, “you are just plain mean.  You know that?”

            I said, “If I am, it’s because I learned from the master.”

            “I will see you tonight,” she said, “and you had better play nice.”

            I laughed and turned around.  “Lights,” I said, “fifty percent.”

            I walked into my bedroom, which had an unused, empty sort of smell to it, not surprisingly, since I rarely slept in my own bed anymore.  I made a mental note to change the bed linens and have the room freshened up a bit.  It was a little depressing, in a way; then I shook that thought off.  Change was always hard for me, even a good change.  I’d left enough time to shower and trim my beard, and then get into my dress whites and give my shoes one last shine, before I had to be back in Ten Forward for our final rehearsal.  We were playing a few new songs – and we had a surprise, too – and I didn’t normally overkill, with rehearsals, but there was enough new material this year to warrant one last dress.

            I walked over to my bed and sat down to pull my boots and socks off, when I noticed a small gift on my night table.  It was obviously a book, from the shape of it, and I wondered what book Jean-Luc would give me, that he thought I would like.  I teased him, often, about the number of old-fashioned books he had in his quarters – and about their subject matters – and he teased me back, because he claimed I professed not to be a reader.  I was, of course, a reader – I just didn’t collect old, dusty books – and he liked adventure novels as well as his silly old Dixon Hill mysteries (and Travis McGee and George Gideon and Inspector Maigret), so his pretending he read nothing but Shakespeare and Ovid was a bit of a joke between us.

            There was a note with it, and I thought I would wait, before I opened it, so I undressed, and took my shower, and trimmed my beard and did all the usual toiletries; my dress whites were hanging in the closet, pressed and covered, and I laid them out on the bed, before sitting in my shorts and polishing my shoes.  Then I dressed, cursing all the stupid buttons and fussing with my tie, tacking my pips on and straightening my collar.

            I sat back down on the bed and picked up the book.  Then I opened the small envelope instead and found a handwritten invitation to Holodeck Four, at 0200 hours, presumably after the dance.  I wondered if Jean-Luc intended to work alpha shift, and then I grinned.  He always worked alpha shift.  I carefully unwrapped the book – it was a very old edition, in leather with gold embossing, of Walt Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass_ , with a cloth bookmark in it.  I opened to the page and read the poem – perhaps my favourite of Whitman’s, although I don’t know how Jean-Luc knew that:

 

A noiseless, patient spider,

I mark’d, where, on a little promontory, it stood, isolated;

Mark’d how, to explore the vacant, vast surrounding,

It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself;

Ever unreeling them – ever tirelessly speeding them.

 

And you, O my Soul, where you stand,

Surrounded, surrounded, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, -- seeking the spheres, to connect them;

Till the bridge you will need, be form’d – till the ductile anchor hold;

Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul.

 

            On our first real date, before I’d broken the mirror in my quarters and tried to end my own life, Jean-Luc had invited me to spend an evening with him on the beach, as he put it; the beach turned out to be in a little town outside of Barcelona on the Mediterranean, where he’d spent his holidays as a child.  The sky and sea had reminded me of my favourite Hopkins poem, and we’d talked a little bit about poetry, and my fondness for the Victorians and the Pre-Raphaelites.  Whitman could, I suppose, be considered a Victorian but he was more of a Transcendentalist; his poetry, while lyric, had very little to do with Tennyson and Coleridge and the other traditionalists – but certainly the innovation, the striking imagery in this poem could be considered, in a way, similar to Hopkins – or maybe Yeats.  How like Jean-Luc, I thought, to remember my love of poetry which was something I kept completely to myself, and again, how like him to extrapolate that I might find meaning – in this poem – I looked at the last two lines again.  I’d spent my entire life feeling unwanted and unloved, hating myself for the crimes that had been done to me, running away from the few relationships I’d found – including the one I’d had with Deanna – even as I was desperate to find someone, anyone, who could love me, damaged as I was.  And then I joined the _Enterprise_ , and I began to understand what it might be like, to have a family, to have people who really cared about you, who wouldn’t say they did as they were trying to destroy you.  If it hadn’t been for Jean-Luc I wouldn’t have survived – I wouldn’t be where I was, now, finally beginning to learn that I was a worthwhile person and that I could, in fact, be worthy of someone’s love –and I remembered the conversation we’d had, the first time I’d been allowed out of sickbay after I’d attempted suicide, when Jean-Luc had taken me to Mr Mot to get my hair cut and my beard trimmed, and then to the Arboretum, where we’d made love by the pond.  I said I didn’t think I was the same person anymore, the one who confused physical sex with love, and he’d replied that he’d thought that person – the person I’d been – had been lost, and searching for an anchor…. _Till the ductile anchor hold;/Till the gossamer thread_ _you fling, catch somewhere, O my soul_.

            I closed the book and sat on my bed for a minute, calming myself down and practising my breathing.  I would not allow myself to panic; I would not allow my damaged self to ruin this for me; I didn’t have to do this anymore.  I recited silently to myself my affirmations:  I am essentially a good person.  I am funny, and kind, and loyal.  I can manage the symptoms of my illness.  I am worthy of love.  Jean-Luc loves me – I made myself say this out loud.  I love him.

            I was okay, then, and I stood up, and checked in the mirror just to make sure I wasn’t doing something really stupid like crying – sometimes I did, cry, I mean, and wasn’t aware of it – and I took the book and my invitation – it was on lovely paper, and I wondered briefly where he’d found it – and left my quarters for Ten Forward.  I’d been worried about my last gift of the evening to Jean-Luc – but I wasn’t, now.  Jean-Luc loved me, and everything would be okay.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean-Luc and Will attend the St Valentine's Day Ball.

 

6.

 

 

 

 

            We’d had a closed-door final dress, with only Guinan and her staff present, and it had gone really well.  Jai Patel was my clarinetist, as well as my physical therapist, and he was subbing for me when I would be having dinner and the obligatory first dance with Jean-Luc.  When Deanna had brought the dance up the first time I’d been terrified.  Jean-Luc was an extremely shy man – I’d figured that out almost from the beginning of my first year on the _Enterprise_ – and the thought of making him uncomfortable, of making him feel as if he were making a spectacle of himself, had truly upset me.  He and I had managed to sort that through, though, and, while we hadn’t taken Beverly up on her offer of dance lessons, we’d been able to sort that out as well.  I could dance – I’d performed in high school and at the Academy – but Jean-Luc was a dancer.  When I led, it was simple because he intrinsically knew what to do to make me feel completely at ease; I hadn’t wanted to lead, but his point, that I was simply so much taller it was natural, was, of course, correct, and I was reasonably certain that everything would be okay.  I was a little nervous about the song I’d chosen, but Jai and the rest of the band had assured me it was perfect.  And let’s face it; Ensign LePatourel was a spectacular find.  Not only could she sing – but she was French Canadian.  With her voice, and Jai’s expert playing, my last gift to Jean-Luc would, I hope, make up for him having to perform on the dance floor.

            “Will.”  Guinan had walked up behind me, and was waiting for me to finish my last minute instructions.

            “Yes?”  I turned around and gave her a quick hug.  She’d done her best to keep me alive by taking charge of my eating when I’d been sick.  She was probably, I thought, the kindest person on the ship.

            “Picard will be overwhelmed,” she said.  “Give him space, all right?”

            “I will,” I promised.  “He won’t be alone at the table, when I’m with the band.  And I thought I’d take the second number, so he could either choose to dance with Beverly or just sit the next few out.”

            “Good,” she said.  She took my hand and held it, briefly.  “You have done wonders for him, Will.  Try not to be too anxious tonight.”

            “I have been given permission,” I said, “by my doctor to take an extra dose of my medication if I need it.”

            Guinan laughed.  “You won’t need it,” she said.  “Just remember that you are where you need to be.”

            That was McBride-speak for remaining in the present, one of the most important ways to combat anxiety.

            “I know, Guinan,” I answered.  “I’ll be okay.”

            “You’d better go, then,” she said.  “You wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.  He’ll be anxious, too.”

            “Of course,” I said, and I turned to Jai and said, “It’s your show.”

            ‘Aye, sir,” Jai said, saluting me with his clarinet, and, grinning, I left Ten Forward for Jean-Luc’s quarters on Deck Nine.

            I entered his dayroom and was immediately assailed with the scent of spring.  “Jean-Luc?” I called.

            “I’m in here, Will,” he answered from the bedroom.  

            He sounded a little agitated – or maybe it was frustrated – and I said, “Do you think we should sleep in my quarters tonight?  It smells really bad in here.”

            He stopped fussing with his tie and glared at me.  “Remind me, at some point tomorrow, Number One,” he said, his speech slightly more clipped than it normally was, “when everyone on this ship has regained common sense, to find a suitable punishment for you.”

            “Here, let me do that,” I said, walking towards him.  I took his hands and placed them gently at his sides, and then I untied the mess he’d made of his tie and retied it.

            “Who was it who taught you how to do that so well?” he asked.

            “Master Chief Henry Ivanov,” I answered.  “For my first school dance.”

            He smiled, and I tacked his pips onto his collar.  “How old were you?”

            It was amazing, that even though the memories of my tortured childhood had nearly killed me, I could find that there were placed, in between the horror, small memories that were actually good ones.

            “I was twelve,” I said, “and the tallest boy in the school.  I looked like the giant Jack killed.”

            “How tall were you, Will?” He gave me the boutonnière, and I attached it to his lapel.

            “Probably around a hundred and seventy-eight centimetres,” I answered.

            “As tall as I am now?” He shook his head.  “Whom did you take?”

            “Oh, Auntie Tasya wouldn’t have allowed me to take anyone, Jean-Luc,” I said, “she thought I was much too young to be going to begin with.  I went with my cousin Dmitri, and later we got into trouble because Dmitri had brought some vodka….”

            “I don’t think I necessarily want to hear this story,” he said, smiling.  “Thank you, for helping me with this.  Henry Ivanov taught you well.”

            “And if I screw up on the trombone tonight, Jean-Luc,” I added, “you can thank Henry for that, too.”

            “Will,” Jean-Luc said quietly.  He patted the bed.  “Sit down, so I don’t have to look up at you.”

            I sat on the edge of the bed, a little anxiously.  “What is it?”

            “I just wanted to take a moment,” he said, brushing my hair off of my forehead, “to calm you down, just a bit.  There is nothing, William – “ he kissed me on the top of my head “—that you should feel anxious about.  I very much enjoyed my Valentine’s Day gifts from you – yes, even the flowers.”  He pulled me to him.  “Just breathe, Will.  I’m looking forward to this, I promise you I am.  You don’t always have to be responsible for my well-being, just as I am no longer always responsible for yours.”  He held me, and I sighed.  “That’s right.  You breathe, Will.  Your band will be wonderful, and your playing will be wonderful.  We will be with our friends, and we will all have a good time.”

            “You’re not mad about the flowers?” I asked.  “I wouldn’t have done it, except the other night, you said you missed spring….”

            “No,” he answered, “even if you _still_ are using the word _mad_.”

            I laughed.  “You wouldn’t know it was me, otherwise,” I said.  “You had fun?”

            “It was bloody marvelous,” he said.  “I actually shot a Tommy gun.”  He bent down a bit and kissed me.  “Poor Mr Data was so confused.  He kept saying he thought Valentine’s Day was about love.”

            I stood up.  “Are we ready, then?  I promised Deanna that we’d go together.”

            He took my arm.  “Yes,” he said.

            We walked quietly to the door and I stopped.  “You know,” I said hesitantly, “that I still can’t express myself very well.”

            “I think you have done exceptionally well, today,” he replied.

            “I don’t know how to thank you,” I said, looking down, “for the poem.  When I read it the second time – “

            “Come here,” he said to me, and he took me in his arms.  “I know, Will.  You don’t have to tell me.”

            “I love you,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder.

            “And I you,” he replied.  “Promise me, that you’ll try not to be so anxious tonight.”

            “I’ll be okay,” I said.  “Once I see that everything is the way it’s supposed to be.”

            “Let’s fetch Deanna and Worf,” he said, walking through the doors.  “Are we escorting Beverly and Iñaki as well?”

            “They were going to meet us,” I said.  I chimed Deanna’s door.  “Deanna?  Are you ready?”

            The doors opened, and Deanna appeared, looking stunning in a gown that was sort of an iridescent green, like – I don’t know, the back of a dragonfly or something.  Worf was behind her, looking magnificently uncomfortable, and I grinned.

            “Did she like the _bat’lef_?” I asked him, and was not too terribly surprised when she hit me on my arm.

            “Don’t tease her, Will,” Jean-Luc said.  “Deanna, you look lovely.”

            “Thank you, Captain,” she replied, smiling.

            “Please,” Jean-Luc said, “for tonight, just Jean-Luc.”

            We walked to the turbo lift, and Worf said to me, “He doesn’t expect me to call him Jean-Luc, does he?”  He looked stricken.

            “No, I don’t think so,” I said.  “You could ask him.”

            “I would rather die,” Worf said miserably.  “I hate these things.”

            “Be nice,” I said to Worf.  “She’s dangerous, if you’re not.”

            “I heard that, Will Riker,” Deanna said.

            “Deck Twelve,” I told the computer. 

            We picked up Beverly and Iñaki Sandoval from sickbay, and joined the crowd of staff and crew entering Ten Forward.  Jai had already started our light music program, and I nodded to him as we walked to the head table, where we were joined by Data and Geordi, who were apparently double-dating with two lieutenants from botany and biology.

            “Keiko must have set them up,” I said to Jean-Luc as we sat down.  “We should really mingle a bit, before dinner.”

            “Of course,” he replied, and between the pair of us we managed to acknowledge just about everyone who’d showed up, including Guinan, looking serene as always, even as she was organising a million meals and drinks.

            “I’ve got to talk to Jai for a moment,” I said to Jean-Luc finally, as it was getting close to dinner.

            “You go ahead, Will,” he said.  “I think we’re all ready to sit down.”

            Jai was playing one of my arrangements of an old Harold Arlen tune, and I waited until he’d finished.  “You guys break,” he said, and he came over to me.

            “We’re okay?” I asked, a little nervously.  “I don’t see Maelys.”

            “She’s here,” Jai said.  “It’s great, Will.  You have a good time, and I’ll see you for the second song, right?”

            I took a deep breath.  “Yes,” I said.  “Thanks, Jai.”

 

            Dinner turned out to be good.  Jean-Luc had asked Guinan to serve us several bottles of his Chateau Picard, and I even allowed myself a glass of wine.  Guinan had outdone herself with the meal, and looked appropriately stunning, when she finally joined us, at Jean-Luc’s request.  Worf had settled down, and the two girls Data and Geordi had brought were sweet.  At some point during the meal Jean-Luc had taken my hand under the table, and it was then that I realised everything was really going to be okay.

            We’d timed it so that everyone would be just winding down from dessert and coffee, and Mac and the other servers were wandering around still pouring one last cup for people when Jai and the rest of my band took the stage and began setting up.

            “The two of you never came for your dance lessons,” Beverly said, sipping the last of her tea.

            “Beverly,” Jean-Luc said, “you are not going to rile Will up.  Leave him alone.”

            Worf looked at me, and then he looked at Jean-Luc.  “You are dancing with the captain?” he asked me.  His tone was not insubordinate – it was just one of mild disbelief, but Jean-Luc said, in his neutral tone of voice, “That is the tradition, Mr Worf.”

            “They are indeed the highest ranking couple,” Data said in his endearingly matter-of-fact way, and I laughed.

            “We know exactly what we’re doing,” I assured Worf.  “There will be no embarrassment, not for anyone.”

            “Commander,” Worf began, “I wasn’t suggesting – “

            “Relax, Worf,” Deanna said, “he’s teasing you.”

            Worf glared at me, and I felt Jean-Luc pat my hand under the table, and then I heard Jai take the microphone as the lights were lowered.

            “Good evening,” he said in his mellifluous voice, “ladies and gentlemen.  Welcome to the USS _Enterprise_ ’s annual St Valentine’s Day Ball.”  Everyone quieted down, and Jai continued, “Commander Riker and I want you to have a terrific evening of music and dancing, after we’ve all had such a wonderful meal – thank you, Guinan, for that – “ here everyone applauded Guinan.  “As you know, it’s been the Valentine’s Ball tradition that the first dance goes to the highest ranking couple in attendance.”  He paused, and everyone looked to our table, and the spot illuminated us.  “This year we are fortunate enough not only to have our captain in attendance, but we are also most fortunate to have Commander Riker restored to us, safely, and in good health.”  

            I rolled my eyes, and Jean-Luc said in a low voice, “Will.”  It was embarrassing, a little, to have to sit there while everyone applauded – it wasn’t as if this were my first public appearance – that had been the Chanukah party we’d had for Dr McBride.  Still, I could understand, I guess, why Jai had felt the need to bring it up.

            “It’s an honour,” Jai said, “to play for two of the bravest men in the ‘Fleet, and so tonight we have a special treat for everyone.  Appearing for the first time with the Riker Swing Band is Ensign Maelys LePatourel.”

            I watched as Maelys appeared from the shadows, looking incredible, and took the stage and the microphone from Jai.

            “Good evening,” she said, “ _Bon soir_ , _et bienvenue_ to the musical program for tonight.  There is a dedication,” she said, “for our first song, to our own Captain Picard.”

            I felt Jean-Luc go still, and I reached for his hand under the table.

            “Will?” Deanna asked, and then _pianissimo_ , the first notes of the introduction filled the air, and the spot dimmed but remained on us, and I said,

            “Jean-Luc?  May I have this dance?”

            His eyes were a little bright and he nodded, and we both stood up, and then we walked slowly out onto the dance floor, the light following us, and as I put my arms around him, Maelys began softly,

 

            “ _Des yeux qui font baisser les miens,_

_Un rire qui se perd sur sa bouche --_

_Voilà le portrait sans retouche_

_De l’homme auquel, j’appartiens._

_Quand il me prend dans ses bras,_

_Il me parle tout bas,_

_Je vois la vie en rose….”_

            The music swelled around us, Maelys with her lovely voice, not sounding at all like Edith Piaf and yet Piaf was there with us, it seemed; and Jean-Luc was in my arms, and I was in his; and then the dance floor filled, and I said,  “Was this the right song, Jean-Luc?” and he said, quietly, “ _Je t’aime beaucoup, Guillaume_.”

            The night seemed to speed by, after that, and reluctantly I had to abandon Jean-Luc so I could rejoin the band, although I was able to return to him several times, leaving Jai to lead.  Finally the night seemed to be winding down, and I was wrapping up a Johnny Mercer song when Jean-Luc came over to the stage.

            “Thank you,” he said to Maelys when the song was over, “for such a beautiful rendition of an old French song.”

            “It was an honour to sing it for you, sir,” Maelys replied.

            “Where are you from?” Jean-Luc asked as I stepped down from the stage.

            “A little town in Québec,” Maelys answered.  “I’m sure that was the accent you heard.”

            “Wherever did you find her, Will?” he asked me.  “And what,” he said to Maelys, “do you do when you are not using that incredible voice?”

            Maelys surprised me by holding her own.  “I was on the _Hathaway_ , sir,” she said, “and Commander Riker promised me a wonderful job in astrophysics and a first-class band in need of a singer.”

            “Just how long ago did you plan this, Number One?” he said, and I laughed.

            “I got a chance to hear Maelys sing last year,” I explained, “and I’ve been on a campaign to win her over ever since.”

            “I am very glad you did,” he said.  “Welcome aboard, Ensign.”

            “Thank you, sir,” Maelys said.  “I’m happy he did too, sir.”

            “Lieutenant,” Jean-Luc said to Jai, “I’m sorry to tell you that Mr Riker has a prior engagement at this time, so I’m afraid I’ll be taking him away from you now.  Thank you – all of you,” he said, speaking to my band, “for a wonderful evening.  You are all a credit to this ship.”

            “We’re wrapping now, Captain,” Jai said, “so you may have Will.  Good night, sir.  Good night, Commander.”

            I walked back with Jean-Luc to our table to say our goodbyes to everyone there, and then we left Ten Forward for the turbo lift and, as Jean-Luc had written in his invitation to me, Holodeck Four.

            “You won’t tell me what this is, Jean-Luc?” I asked, as he input the program code.

            “I can tell you that it isn’t the least bit violent,” he answered, taking my hand, and I laughed.

            I was still for a moment, for we were on the patio of the hotel in Sitges, and there were coloured lanterns all around, and a combo was playing somewhere inside the hotel, and there was a bright yellow moon shining down on the calm Mediterranean Sea.  He led me to our table, along the edge of the beach, and I could hear the waves lapping gently against the shore, and then a woman began to sing in the sweet, mocha-coloured tones I was so familiar with: 

 

            “The shore was kissed

            By sea and mist, tenderly

            I can’t forget

            How two hearts met

            Breathlessly….”

 

            Jean-Luc said, “Would you care to dance, William?” and I nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, as we danced all by ourselves to the sounds of Sarah Vaughan and the Mediterranean. 

            “Are you happy, Will?” he asked.

            “Yes,” I said, resting my head on his shoulder as we simply rocked back and forth, not really dancing anymore, just embracing.  I didn’t say anything else; there was really nothing more to say.

            The song ended, and we wandered back over to the table, and the same waiter as before came out and Jean-Luc ordered champagne for both of us, and then he held my hands across the table.

            I said, softly, “ _Till the bridge you will need, be form’d – till the ductile anchor hold; /Till the gossamer thread you fling, catch somewhere, O my Soul._   You are my anchor, Jean-Luc.”

            “I had hoped that I could be, Will,” he answered.  He let go of my hands, and reached into his jacket pocket for a small box.

            “You didn’t have that at dinner,” I said.

            He smiled.  “No, Deanna was holding it for me.”  He opened it and took out a gold ring, filigreed with anchors all around it.  I could hear Sarah Vaughan singing quietly in the background, and he said, “Would you do me the honour of marrying me, William?  I have,” and he coloured, a little, “already asked your Uncle Marty for permission.”

            “What did he say?” I asked.

            Jean-Luc shrugged.  “He said it was _all right_ with him,” he replied, “if it was _all_ _right_ with you.”

            “Then I guess,” I said, “it’s _all right_ with me, too.”

            He slipped the ring on my finger.  “I think,” he said, “that we could probably ask Admiral Laidlaw to perform the ceremony, if you wished.”

            “Did everyone else know you were going to ask me tonight, Jean-Luc?”

            “No,” he answered, taking my hands again.  “Not everyone.  You’re sure about this, Will?” he asked.  “You didn’t have to answer me right away, you know.”

            “Yes,” I said simply.  “I’ve always been yours, Jean-Luc,”

            And we spent what was left of the night in each other’s arms, listening to the sounds of wind and sea and the dulcet tones of Sarah Vaughan.


End file.
